


Obstacles

by Bookwormgal



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Arson, Character Death, Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Controlling Ernesto, Emotional Trauma, Ernesto Is Less Impulsive, Ernesto Ruins Everything, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Héctor Doesn't Deserve This, Loss, Mexico, Possessive Ernesto, Selfish Ernesto, Serious Injuries, graphic depictions of burns, smoke inhalation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Poisoning his friend would provide a few songs and would deny that woman victory, but Ernesto halted his hand instead. He wanted Héctor beside him, writing more songs and sharing the adventure. That was how it was supposed to be. It was what he’d wanted from childhood. Ernesto discarded that dark and impulsive plan. He would not punish Héctor when his family was truly the ones to blame.





	Obstacles

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the “Coco Locos Angst Off 2018” contest. The prompt I chose is (11) “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
> 
> Information about the contest [here](http://babycharmander.tumblr.com/post/177318160255/the-coco-locos-angst-off).

It was _her_ fault.

The realization that night stilled Ernesto’s hand when his friend wanted to leave a month and a half ago, keeping the parting toast as tequila and nothing more. Héctor’s abandonment? His betrayal of taking his songs and going home? Discarding their dream like it was nothing?

It was because of that woman. Her and the little girl, though the child came later. Imelda’s looks and her voice bewitched Héctor, turning his head and confusing Ernesto’s friend. Héctor never had much sense except when it came to music. That’s why Ernesto was always good enough to watch out for his younger friend, guiding him and showing him the way.

But Ernesto didn’t see the harm in the early flirtations with a pretty and young _señorita_ with a nice voice, even one so assertive. He thought that Héctor would follow her around like a puppy for a while, writing new songs and such, until he finally moved on. If he’d known what would happen, Ernesto would have directed him away at the start. Once Imelda sunk her claws into poor Héctor, she started twisting his thoughts around and he stopped listening to Ernesto like he should. He barely managed to convince Héctor to go in the first place, his friend talking about how he should stay to take care of his family. _She_ was the reason that Héctor wanted to leave.

Poisoning his friend would provide a few songs and would deny that woman victory, but Ernesto halted his hand instead. He wanted Héctor beside him, writing more songs and sharing the adventure. That was how it was supposed to be. It was what he’d wanted from childhood. Ernesto discarded that dark and impulsive plan. He would not punish Héctor when his family was truly the ones to blame.

So Ernesto continued the tour for a few more weeks on his own, even knowing that true success required his partner’s songs. But he used his time wisely. He considered his options on how to handle the obstacles to his dream. He worked out the details, figuring out the possible ways it could go wrong. And then he forced himself to work up the nerve to go through with it.

Slipping poison into a glass would have been a small act. What he devised instead was somehow harder.

But he wanted his dream… If he wanted to play for the world, sharing the stage with his friend and playing those songs for the crowds, Ernesto knew that he must do whatever it takes.

He didn’t immediately seek Héctor out upon his return to Santa Cecilia, making use of the morning to make a few preparations for the task. But he eventually found his friend and smiled through the enthusiastic greetings.

A casual suggestion to go out that evening to celebrate was grudgingly allowed by Imelda. Though Héctor should never have needed to ask _her_ , as if the newly-established _zapatera_ had any right to stop them. But arrangements were quickly made to meet at the old _cantina_ for a little drinking and catching up. Héctor was thrilled by the idea, eager to see his friend like usual and relieved at the lack of hard feelings. He only asked that it be after he tucked in Coco for the night and sang the girl her lullaby. Ernesto had no problem with the request.

But Ernesto didn’t wait at the _cantina_. He hid in the shadows. He lurked close enough that Ernesto would have heard singing drifting through the windows if they weren’t closed against the evening chill. And if he wasn’t carefully wedging them with thin pieces of wood so they would never open again. It wasn’t hard to do silently in the dark and if anyone noticed his presence, no one would question it. He was a familiar sight around the Rivera home. Completely unnoteworthy and unsuspicious. And once Héctor stepped out the front door and headed towards the _cantina_ , Ernesto finished his preparations.

He hesitated briefly at the end, distaste and unease churning in his stomach, but he finished the necessary chore. Then he turned and left.

Héctor teased him a little for being late, but it was all in good-natured fun. Ernesto talked about the rest of the tour, about the performances that he did on his own. The crowds enjoyed his music, but Ernesto knew that he could have been _better_. Héctor apologized for leaving, claiming it was just too much time away from his family and saying that perhaps he could still join him when he played closer to home. A noncommittal nod and a topic change later, the pair were laughing over old stories from childhood. Their laughter and conversation might have been a little too loud at points, drawing the attention of the rest of the _cantina_ with their storytelling. But it might serve as a decent alibi.

It felt familiar and nice. It was like the old days, as if nothing had changed. They were best friends; the two of them had each other and needed no one else. And they wouldn’t abandon each other for any reason. Especially not because of some _woman_. They didn’t need her. Héctor didn’t need her. Why would he with Ernesto around?

But the calm and pleasant mood shattered as Señor López scrambled into the _cantina_ , his eyes wide and desperate as he shouted, “Fire! The _zapatera_! Her home! It’s on fire!”

Ernesto barely glimpsed the look of absolute horror and fear that flashed across Héctor’s face at the words before he was gone, bolting out of his chair and out the door like lightning. And since he knew his friend would do something dumb, Ernesto chased after.

While the fire might have been subtle when Ernesto left, it hadn’t stayed that way for long. Flames filled the night, bright and painful to stare at. The fire roared like a hungry beast, crackling and popping as it consumed the structure. The heat was a physical force, pushing people back as they shielded their eyes against the burning glare. Ernesto could feel it halfway across the street, too hot to approach and making his skin feel too tight. It was even enough to make Héctor pause, staggering to a halt as he raised an arm defensively and allowed Ernesto to catch up.

Most of the gathered people were still staring in horror at the raging inferno, unable to organize into anything resembling order. No one was taking charge. No one could wrap their minds around what was happening. It was too big and too vicious to comprehend, more a ravenous and inhuman monster than a mere fire. Ernesto did his work better than he expected.

Then, breaking through his horrified shock, Héctor shouted, “ _Imelda! Coco!_ ”

Ernesto lunged for him, wrapping his arms around Héctor and holding him back. Héctor struggled and fought against his grip, but he held firm. He couldn’t let Héctor get any closer. Not only would Héctor get hurt, but he also kept his red leather songbook tucked in his pocket at all times. So Ernesto held tight as Héctor screamed the names of his family.

“Let me go! Let go!” He twisted and strained in his friend’s grasp, struggling uselessly to break free. “Oscar! Felipe! They’re in there! _Imelda! Coco!_ ”

“You can’t go in there,” said Ernesto firmly. “You’ll be killed.”

With a loud series of _cracks_ , part of the weakening roof collapsed inward with a _crash_ and an accompanying scream managed to cut through the deafening noise. That seemed to make the decision for Héctor. He twisted around enough to punch Ernesto in the jaw, making the larger man stagger back in surprise and allowed Héctor to break free. And lacking any survival instinct, Héctor ran towards the flaming inferno.

A heavy beam, one that looked more like it fell from the burning building rather than something dragged from the alley that Ernesto left it in earlier in the day, kept the door wedged shut. No one from the inside would be able to force it and trying would only wedge it tighter. But as skinny as he might be, desperation provided its own type of strength and it was easier to shift from the outside. Héctor wrestled the beam out of the way enough to pry the door open. Two figures stumbled out the opening, coughing and barely standing after their clear attempts to pound the door open from the far side. Without hesitation, Héctor pulled them away from the flames and smoke.

Ernesto managed to catch one of the half-grown boys as Héctor shoved them towards safety. He couldn’t tell which one was Oscar and which one was Felipe, but both were streaked with soot, their clothes were singed, and one was missing his glasses. The only burns seemed minor, so both would survive. The hacking coughs seemed more distracting than anything.

“Imelda? Coco?” Héctor asked desperately, his shirt already starting to soak with sweat from the heat. “Are they in there?”

One of the twins nodded, still coughing as he gestured back towards the burning building. This time Ernesto was too slow to grab Héctor and stop him. With speed born of worry and desperation, Héctor snatched a blanket from one bystander and a bucket of water from one of the few people trying to be useful. He slung the blanket around his shoulders and dumped the water on it before diving through the doorway into the raging inferno.

No, no, _no_.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. If he wanted Héctor dead, he would have stuck with poison. At least that wouldn’t involve tossing the songbook _into the fire_.

“Get moving, people!” ordered Ernesto, glaring at the useless crowd milling around. “Water! Dirt! Anything to smother out the flames! _Now_!”

There was something ironic in it, but Ernesto found himself organizing a bucket line for the burning building. People could barely get close, the heat too extreme and pushing them back, but they passed buckets of water from the closest wells and flung them towards the flames. A few people focused on the surrounding buildings to keep it from spreading. But they couldn’t seem to put a dent in the heat nor could they seem to quench the fire.

And with every passing moment that Héctor didn’t reappear, the more Ernesto’s stomach seemed to drop.

After what felt like an eternity, hunched-over shapes stumbled and staggered through the door. They took several clumsy and wobbling steps before Ernesto recognized what he was staring at. Coughing raggedly, Héctor approached while supporting a barely-conscious Imelda with one arm and cradling a small shape to his chest. That recognition spurred Ernesto into running towards his idiotic friend and he nearly reached him before they collapsed, one to his knees and the other falling weakly on her side.

“ _Imelda!_ ” shouted the twins in unison, running towards her.

The attractive, sweet-voiced, and aggressive woman didn’t look like herself, sprawled limply on the ground with one arm trying to curl around her stomach. The left side of her face, her neck, and sections of her back that he could glimpse through the scorched dress were badly burned. Even part of her hair was scorched away, revealing her blistered scalp. Raw, red and black in equal measures, and already wet-looking, Imelda’s injuries couldn’t be ignored or missed. And her breathing rattled in her chest as she wheezed and cried out in pain, proving the damage was more than skin deep. The fact that she was still alive at all was a miracle.

And assuming that she somehow survived her injuries, Ernesto knew that she would never be the same. Burns those extensive could be guaranteed to leave equally-extensive scars. She wouldn’t be able to maintain her hold on Héctor without her beautiful face and body anymore. Who would want that assertive, opinionated, and strong-willed woman once she lost her looks? No one would be attracted to such a thing. And that would bring Héctor back to Ernesto’s side where he belonged.

Though the smell of burnt hair and cooked meat that joined the smoke filled his nose and turned Ernesto’s stomach.

“ _Co_ —” Imelda croaked before collapsing into further coughs, her voice as rough and ruined as her face.

As she coughed and wept in agony, her brothers crowded around her and shouted for a doctor. Ernesto doubted that it would make much of a difference. But it would keep them out of the way and allow Ernesto to focus on what really mattered.

On his knees, coughing uncontrollably, and shaking slightly as he shrugged off the smoldering blanket from his shoulders, Héctor held the small bundle to his chest protectively. His hands were red and already blistering, probably from lifting something hot and heavy in there. He wouldn’t be playing guitar for a while. Especially since his instrument was still in the burning building somewhere. But Ernesto would take care of that until he healed. Ernesto was always the stronger performer anyway. And other than the hands and the wracking coughs, Héctor seemed mostly intact. Coated in soot and a redness to his skin that could be more minor burns, but alive.

Even better, Ernesto saw the outline of the songbook in his pocket. It was safe.

“Imel—” said Héctor desperately as he tried to look towards her, but coughs interrupted his hoarse voice.

“They’re taking care of her,” Ernesto said, placing himself so that he blocked her from view.

If it just so happened that having his back to Imelda meant that Ernesto also didn’t have to look at the burning and crying figure, that was just a coincidence. And it didn’t block the pained sounds nor the smells. Someone else retched at the smell of burnt flesh and he was struggling not to follow their example.

This wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t supposed to get this close to the results and Héctor’s family was never supposed to make it out of the building at all. He blocked all the possible exits _for a reason_. They were supposed to stay in there. He was going to have nightmares about the smells and the sounds.

But this was what was necessary. He would seize his moment and achieve his dream. Whatever it took…

“Let’s focus on you, _mi amigo_ ,” he continued. “Look at what you’ve done to your hands. That _has_ to hurt.”

Héctor looked down, but not at his hands. He looked at his daughter, wrapped in Imelda’s leather apron in an attempt to protect her from the flames. Ernesto had to admit that the woman was clever. Héctor carefully pulled the covering away from the girl, concern in his wild and frantic eyes.

While covered in soot like everyone else who made it out of the building, the apron did its job at protecting the child from being burned. The fire didn’t touch her. Her nightgown wasn’t singed like the clothes of her _tíos_ ; only coated with black stains that might never be scrubbed out. The dark smudges on her face were broken by the streaks left behind by frightened tears. But she wasn’t crying any longer, the earlier tears dried by the extreme heat. She wasn’t panicking or trying to hold her papá or moving at all. The girl just laid limply in her papá’s arms like a discarded doll.

“Coco? _Mija_?” called Héctor, the smoke damage keeping his voice to a hoarse whisper. He cupped her face and brushed his blistered thumb along her cheek gently, trying to coax a response. “Look at me. Look at me, _mija_. I need you to wake up.”

He slipped back into ragged coughs, but she didn’t move. She didn’t respond. Still, silent, and limp as a broken toy. Shaking, his breathing turning into choked gasps, and his eyes widening further, Héctor brushed back her hair desperately.

“Come on,” pleaded Héctor. His hand brushed against her face and her hair, showing no sign of the pain his burns must be causing him. “Wake up, Coco. Can you hear me? Wake up, _mija_.”

His choked gasps shifted into desperate sobs. Tears cut tracks through the soot on his face as he cradled the girl in his arms. But even as Héctor rocked her gently, the girl remained limp and unresponsive to his words. It was also becoming more and more evident that she wasn’t even breathing. And beneath the soot, she looked pale and almost gray.

The flames didn’t touch her, but smoke was more difficult to protect against.

“Coco, I need you to breathe. Come on. Breathe for your Papá.” His voice rough, choked, and shaking, Héctor pulled her limp body desperately to his chest. “ _Mija_ … Please don’t do this… Please… No… Coco, please… no, no…”

Ernesto watched as his friend seemed to crumble, curling around the lifeless child. Desperate pleas, prayers, denials of the obvious truth, and heartbroken recitations of her name spilled out and mixed with ragged coughs until the words stopped making sense. He kept rocking the girl back and forth in his arms and begging as if it would make a difference, as if he expected her to wake up and call out for her papá and Tío Ernesto. The mournful pleas eventually devolved into a broken keening sound, more like what a wounded animal would make rather than a man.

This would hurt Héctor for a while. But he would be better off in the end. Like how guitar strings can cut into the fingers until calluses formed over time. Héctor would be upset over the loss of his daughter and the death or disfigurement of that woman, either one spelling the end of the relationship. He might even end up with a decent ballad from the experience, a new song to add to their repertoire to balance out the faster and more cheerful ones. But he would heal. Héctor would get past this.

And with Ernesto to guide him once again, to show him that at least _some_ people didn’t abandon their friend in their time of need, things would improve. Ernesto would also show him that tying himself down to that woman in the first place was a mistake. Once Héctor started listening again, everything would be fine.

Though watching him mourn over the small figure was disconcerting. It wasn’t just that Héctor was upset. There was something fundamentally wrong about his friend, like a spark in him was dying alongside his family. Like something vital and essential was carved out, leaving a black emptiness behind. Like a part of him was broken beyond repair.

 _No_. Ernesto pushed those thoughts away. He was just letting the stress, the heat, and the smells get to him.

Héctor would act like his old self before long. His injuries would heal in time and they would get him a new guitar. And until the point where he could play and sing again, Ernesto could be the one performing while Héctor provided the songs. They didn’t need the distractions of that family. There would plenty of fans to make up for it. There would be other women: prettier, with more pleasant personalities, less stubborn and less strong-willed, and who would not demand anything permanent.

Ernesto wanted things to be the way that they were meant to be and that’s exactly what he would soon have.

The two of them… Beloved by the world…

But until then, Ernesto would help Héctor through this. Just as he watched over him when they were both children. The best and closest of friends. Brothers in all but blood.

As the fire continued to rage in the night and people focused more on keeping it from spreading to its neighbors, as the doctor behind him spoke of “smoke inhalation” and “serious burns” and “possible crush injuries” as they tried to move Imelda and her brothers cried in worry, and as Héctor buried his fingers into Coco’s hair and pressed small kisses to her forehead as he sobbed for his loss, Ernesto placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Even when everything else was taken from Héctor, he would remain.

Ernesto would not let Héctor go. He would not leave him alone. Especially not in this painful moment. And Ernesto would make sure that Héctor never forgot.

When he stopped hearing the pained and pitiful cries of the woman behind him, he couldn’t help the slight shiver. Dead or finally unconscious from the pain? Either way, Imelda was silent as the gathered people tried to move her somewhere more comfortable than the middle of the street. Those that weren’t still trying to combat the fire, at least. And he preferred that she was taken away. Ernesto wouldn’t have to glimpse the burnt and sickening figure again and perhaps the nauseating smell would fade.

Coco was easier in some ways. There wasn’t a single mark on her. She merely looked like she was asleep in Héctor’s arms. Though it reminded him of all the times the girl would listen to both of them eagerly until the late hour left her struggling to keep her eyes open. Coco always believed, she always _knew_ , that the two of them were the greatest musicians in all of Mexico. She was always the perfect little audience, adoring and enthusiastic…

It didn’t have to be this way. If that woman never tried to interfere and if Héctor had simply listened to Ernesto instead of Imelda, none of this would have been necessary. But Ernesto was forced to take drastic measures and Héctor’s broken sobs were the price. The girl’s death and the uncertain fate for her mamá were merely collateral damage.

Obstacles to be removed.

He did regret Héctor’s current pain, though. Ernesto much preferred it when he was happy. Just as long as that happiness didn’t interfere with their dream. Ernesto couldn’t let something distract Héctor away from what was truly important.

Feeling his friend’s shoulders shake beneath his hand, Ernesto said calmly, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”


End file.
